


I Had A Dream

by justatealduck



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Dark Comedy, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justatealduck/pseuds/justatealduck
Summary: The house to the left never was occupied. Any sign of life wasn't visible within its walls. The rumors only went so far; nobody dared to solve it's mystery.Until Virgil woke up inside.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	I Had A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, what's this? Another series I'm going to work on while having another one I keep on procrastinating on, while planning two others? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this angsty mess because boyy we've got a storm coming.

Darkness.

Then pain. Everywhere.

The boy woke up slowly, struggling to open his eyes properly, sluggish from his sleep. 

He groaned, rubbing his head. How long was he asleep? Every joint in his body felt cramped, his throat dry, the bags under his eyes constantly pulling. Trying to stand up, it only then occurred to him that this was tight and dark. Which wasn't the best choice of sleep for him, apparently, because he immediately started freaking out.

He started fumbling, pressing against the walls in an attempt to get out, only for the wall to his left swing wide open, making him tumble onto a hard wooden floor.

_Great._

He turned back, and only saw a lone wardrobe where he was "sleeping." Disoriented and more than bruised, he got up and searched for _something, anything,_ that could calm him down a bit.

The room was stripped bare, only being occupied by the smell of damp, rotting wood and cobwebs. A sad window was the only light, casting a dull grey beam in the even duller greyer room. He suddenly felt a ringing pain in his fingers, and looked down to see the messy bandages around his arms; the cuts, bruises and ripped skin covering his fingers. 

_Jesus, what did I get into?_

At least he knew where some of the pain came from.

His next thought was water.

His stomach and throat, screaming for a liquid down it, distracted him enough to run around the house, looking for a drink, a glass of water, _anything._ Flying past rooms of mould, pests and dust, he finally saw what looked like the remains of a kitchen. But that didn't matter, what mattered was the sink, that had a tap above it which meant water. Not even bothering to consider if it was poisoned or contaminated (which did cross his mind, but were ignored by him,) he turned it on with trembling hands and drank large amounts straight from the tap.

Quenched, he looked around at the house he woke up in. Eerily silent, almost collapsing due to age, yet somehow immaculate and ancient; It was like it was haunted, or something. He watched enough horror movies to know that you _never_ shout "Hello?" In these types of situations, and that stupid little worry took over all common sense as he explored room to room as quietly as the atmosphere.

It was creepily beautiful, like an intimidating art gallery, with the rooms as the display pieces. Each one, although similar, rebelled in it's own emptiness, way or shape. It could be the burn marks upon the walls, or the lingering scent of cigarettes that hung in the air of another. Usually, he would have been scared shitless, however he appreciated architecture and little details. The grey sky from outside only added to the mood, like it was a picture rather than a real room. It told a story only he could guess and see, and he loved that.

Or he was just happy he was out of the wardrobe, who knows.

Making his way back to the room he woke up in, it only just struck him that people don't wake up hiding in wardrobes in abandoned Edwardian houses, and that the majority of people don't have fingers that looked like they've been through Hell. 

_Mirror._

A shard of glass caught his eye, hiding in the corner. Immediately grabbing it, he stared at the reflection that glared back. Dark, shadowy eyes that glared daggers, emphasized by the dark bags around them, cracked lips, deathly pale skin, sharp cheekbones from malnutrition, and a mess of umber hair that covered nearly all of his face. He had the confusing mix of a thirty year old, but his features made him look like a child.

But none could compare to the injuries on his body.

It was almost the same colour as his hair. Nothing but scars upon bruises upon cuts and burn marks; it was almost impossible to find proper skin. Messy and pathetic bandages tried to cover certain wounds, some fresh, some healing, plasters covered him like he was patched together. He matched the house; he could easily be a dead resident haunting it. Forget his fingers, what happened to him? 

His breath fell short, accidently dropping the shard. The panic finally rose, pulling his hair and pacing around the room. _How did he get here? What was this place? What happened to him?_

He looked down at the shard, a question pushing all the others out of the way.

_Who even am I?_

He knew that he was a boy, about thirty, and went by he/him, that he _really_ hated tight spaces, that he liked Gothic architecture, and (judging by the shirt he wore under his jacket,) he also liked My Chemical Romance. 

Of course, this wasn't enough to satiate himself.

The best thing to do was check if he had any clues, right? That's what they all did in the movies. And, sure, it seemed really stupid. But who was he to know? As far as he knew, he was never in this type of situation before. Digging around in his black comfy jacket, the only luxurious thing on him, he began searching for any sort of object, ID that could trigger or make him remember _something._ There had to be, right? There _should_ be, anyway. If not, he would just..suck it up?

The pockets were mostly filled up by receipts from all sorts of shops, mainly cheap second-hand he didn't know the names of. After more searching, he found his wallet (or was it even his?) He opened it frantically, looking for any ID.

None to be seen. He grew impatient, but changed to the amount of money "his" wallet owned. While not the richest man alive, he certainly knew he had enough to last if he managed it sensibly. Despite that, a guilt nipped at his heart. He didn't even know if this was his, or even how he got it. Tossing the wallet aside, he found something hard, heavy and cold hidden in the pocket on the inside of his jacket.

_He pulled out a hunter's knife._

The man paused, mesmerized with horror at the sharp blade. Though it didn't look like much, the little thing could cut through anything he put his mind to, easy to hide and _perfect for emergencies._

He stopped examining the knife, horrified by his own thoughts. He almost wanted to slap himself for the statement (or thought, if he was being correct.) Why did he even think of that? What kind of sick bastard would use this against anyone? He didn't look like he would be in the military, all skin and bone, so what would be the emergency that wasn't self defense or survival?

But more importantly, how..did he know that?

_"Perfect for emergencies."_

He swallowed a scream. Did he..could he have been? All the evidence pointed to the contrary, so clearly he must be a murdere-

_Stop it._

Shaking his head, he dropped it with an ear ringing clang and kicked it into a far corner of the room, concealed by darkness. This was not the time, and even if..if he did actually did _that,_ he wouldn't want to be caught. As much as he hated to admit it, the guilt of knowing he did it would overwhelm him.

And he didn't even know who he was yet.

The last thing he pulled out was a worn out notebook. Examining it, it didn't match the other possessions, and he was including a fucking knife here. No matter what shit he found, it just seemed different. It didn't look like it belonged to an edgy, poor nightmare boy who looked half dead. It looked expensive, covered in black leather with only the words "EST 1887" in gold at the bottom in neat print. He carefully turned it open, trying his best not to rip it.

It only said one thing inside, in dark blue ink with swirling handwriting.

_"Your name is Virgil."_

**Author's Note:**

> I hate to beg, but comments and kudos are appreciated! I hope you enjoy, I'll try to update this with what I've got planned.


End file.
